Loving a Married Man
by sinfulchihuahua0602
Summary: I seem to love to make myself cry. A small collection of Sherlock feels stories. Warning: may make you cry.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: So I realized this might be slightly out of order. John doesn't know about Mary's betrayal during their wedding, so this is the updated version of this chapter. :)_

"_I do." John's voice was as steady as his hand when he held a gun as he bonded himself to Mary. Sherlock didn't turn away; he couldn't. He wouldn't do that to John Watson, not even as he stood there and the heart he never knew he had was slowly cracking, shattering as John chose someone else._

"_I do." Mary's voice was full of emotion. Disbelief that she'd ever make it this far; elation that this was happening, and something deeper that Sherlock couldn't quite deduce. But that was John, Sherlock thought. He chose Mary over him. And Sherlock didn't turn away; he couldn't. He wouldn't do that to John Watson, not even as he stood there and the vows played in his mind, except it was his baritone voice ringing out across the crowd and his sharp black suit standing there._

Sherlock buried these memories in his mind palace as far down as they would go and locked the door as he walked towards the main street. The sound of cars grew ever closer as he stepped onto the sidewalk of the main street.

His arm almost raised to hail a cab, but before he could do so a plain black car drove up to the curb directly next to Sherlock. He didn't berate Mycroft's dramatic flair as he got in the car, but instead numbly sat there staring out the window.

_Widowed, thirties-thirty-six? No, thirty-four?-and with two daughters- _

_Single, forty-five?, owns a flat, never been in a relationship-_

Sherlock tried to distract his mind by deducing random strangers whenever they stopped, but he couldn't keep his mind off of John.

"_Dance," Sherlock said. He didn't want John's wedding to be ruined in even the slightest way; people would give them strange looks if they didn't dance._

"_Mm?" John was slightly distracted. Sherlock elaborated._

"_Both of you, now, go dance. We can't just stand here. People will wonder what we're talking about."_

_John snapped back to the present. "Right."_

_Sherlock felt Mary touch his arm. "And what about you?"_

"_Well, we can't all three dance. There _are _limits," John chimed in._

"_Yes, there are," Sherlock agreed, though he didn't agree at all. He didn't want Mary there; he wanted John to himself, and he knew that was what John would call selfish of him to say, but it was true. There had been a growing pain in his chest all day, and eventually he had come to realize that it was because he was watching the man he loved choose someone else._

Sherlock realized suddenly that they had arrived at Baker Street. He snapped back to the present and opened the door. In a rare show of humanity, he nodded at the driver in thanks and turned to walk up the stairs to 221B.

He opened the door and went upstairs, fighting back tears-_sentiment!_ Sherlock nearly stumbled into the flat, his usual grace out the window as he felt the past day come crashing down upon him in a sudden avalanche of stabbing pain in his heart. He shed his coat and scarf, leaving them in a heap on the floor, and flicked the lights on. He glanced up and saw Mycroft sitting in John's armchair-_John's armchair-_before he stood up and took a few steps toward him. Sherlock stood there numbly, feeling oddly bare.

"Oh, Sherlock," came Mycroft's soft voice, as he took a step forward and began to embrace Sherlock. Instead of telling Mycroft to piss off, as he normally would have, he sank into the warmth of his brother.

"_I do"-_

"_Come on, husband"-_

"_The signs of three"-_

"_Mary Watson"-_

And Sherlock felt the locked door of his mind palace burst open. He cried, devolving into broken sobs as he stood there, Mycroft's arms around him. He could feel that Mycroft didn't truly understand the hurt that went along with what he was experiencing, but Mycroft had never been the emotional one, it was always Sherlock.

Always Sherlock who felt pain, hurt. Love.

Heartbreak.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: From a thing (or two) I found on Pinterest. Will make you cry._

_Sherlock was dead, Sherlock was dead, Sherlock was—_

John burst into tears and buried his head in his hands. He pulled his legs tighter against himself as the shattering mantra repeated in his head.

He had seen war and death. He had seen the soldiers of his unit get blasted into pieces in front of him. He had seen hundreds of thousands of people die, and had taken care of hundreds of thousands of people who were injured. He had heard hundreds of stories, of the broken soldiers they sent to him, the ones who had lost all hope. His hands had been stained red so many times he had forgotten what they looked like when they weren't covered in blood.

But this—this was worse. Worse than all of it. It shattered his heart, his mind, like nothing from the war ever had. And he didn't think he could recover from this.

Anderson glanced over at John, leaning against the brick wall, head in his hands and knees pulled tight against him. The shadow of Sherlock's coat surrounded him.

He went over to Lestrade, who turned away from a couple of coppers and watched John.

Before Anderson could speak, Lestrade cut him off.

"Let him have the coat, Anderson."

He objected immediately. "But, Detective Inspector, it can be used as evid—"

"He's been through enough, Anderson," he replied, his voice tired. He turned away from Anderson, who glared at his back, before Lestrade sighed and walked to a bench to sit down.

Mycroft stood, watching John. He hadn't really cared for that man that much, but he tolerated his sass for Sherlock, who he knew couldn't live without John.

This had always been Mycroft's greatest fear: Sherlock dying. And this time, it was true. There was no rescue plan this time, no complex plan to save him.

And that hurt him, as Mycroft stood there feeling like he was going to vomit at any moment. His cheeks had taken on a greenish tinge and he struggled to keep his dinner down. Mycroft hated emotion—it was weak and impaired his thinking—and he fought it as hard as possible, but that didn't help his broken heart.

John raised his head and thunked it against the brick wall. He pulled Sherlock's coat tighter around him, feeling its warmth and the slight nutmeg smell on it that he had always associated with Sherlock. The collar chafed at his neck, but he didn't care. He didn't really care about anything right now-not the bright red lights of the ambulance flashing in the corner of his eye, not Mycroft standing off to the side, his eyes on him, not Lestrade sitting on a bench, rubbing his face and wondering how the world could have ever gone so wrong, and especially not Anderson, who was pretending he didn't care.

_Afghanistan or Iraq?_

_Afghanistan_, John thought, _it was Afghanistan, but nothing could prepare me for this, Sherlock. Why did you have to leave me alone like this? I thought… I thought friends protect people. You were always so invincible. Risking yourself all the time—drugs; falling from a rooftop, God, what were you _thinking_; and with your sister…_

John closed his eyes. Sherlock's voice was in his ears; his deep brown hair and rare, genuine smile flashed beneath his eyelids. He started crying again, shoulders shaking gently, hands coming up to cover his face again as his head bowed yet again to rest on his knees.

_You know, you always acted like you didn't care, but I think that you did care about a few things and, of those few things, out of all of us…_

_You're the one that cared the most. _

John turned the key in the lock. He slowly, tiredly pulled it out and pushed the door open.

He was at Mycroft's house. He wanted to plan a funeral, and from what he had seen of him, Mycroft wasn't going to have the sentimentality to do it. So he was going to do it himself and hopefully get the funds of a government official while at it.

He had found the key underneath the doormat after no one had answered, but John knew that Mycroft was home. If he wasn't home, then that was that and John would go home to drink himself to sleep. Then he'd wake up with a huge headache and probably never get around to the funeral.

Who knew what would happen. John was barely hanging on to the meaning of life—he was tempted to join Sherlock in the afterlife.

He walked through the central hallway and emerged into a spacious, simplistic kitchen. There, he found Mycroft leaning over the counter, an almost-finished bottle of beer in one hand and a greenish tinge to his face.

John's natural response with Mycroft had always been sass, and that hadn't changed. So he sassed him, but his voice was tired and his heart wasn't really in it.

"'Caring isn't an advantage,'" he recited. It was practically Mycroft's motto now, he had said it so many times.

Mycroft took a long drink from the bottle. "It's not voluntary either."

John conceded to that. He walked to the fridge, opened it, and grabbed two more bottles. He gave one to Mycroft and took one for himself, uncorked the top, and joined Mycroft in drinking away his grief.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Two more prompts I found on Pinterest and decided to shatter my heart with._

John sat in his armchair. His eyes studied the curves of Sherlock's violin, placed reverently in his armchair, across from John. He took in the shades of brown, the edges that were raised and the edges that were indented, the meticulous care that Sherlock had taken of it. It was possibly the only thing in the flat that was free of dust; John cleaned it every day with the same detail he had used to clean his shoes in the army.

The door to the flat opened and Mrs. Hudson carefully walked in, a tray in her hands. She saw John sitting in his chair, not looking at her as she walked in, and sighed.

"You know, sitting around here isn't doing any good for you," she said. John didn't reply, only let her set the tray down on the table next to him and stay silent as she walked out. She turned back and stared through the doorway at the far wall of the flat. She wished she could do something to get John to get out of that chair.

Mrs. Hudson sighed and closed the door with a soft click, then returned downstairs. She had some visitors coming soon.

It took John half an hour to get to eating the food and drinking the tea, which was cold by then. An hour later, he set the tray on the table next to him and resumed staring at the violin.

A door slammed. John's face turned to frustration and he turned around sharply in his chair.

"Sherlock!" he scolded, before his eyes met an empty flat and dusty furniture. His face slackened and he turned around, then buried his head in his hands and started crying.

…

_Bang._

Sherlock whipped around, expecting the worst. He abandoned the unconscious man at his feet and rushed over to John, who had collapsed several feet away.

He instantly saw the gunshot wound. Blood flowed from it _he'll die from blood loss _and John was groaning in pain _pain, shock can both kill him, what do i dowhatdoidowhatdoido-_

Sherlock's mind froze. His hands hovered over John, wanting to do something to help, but his mind palace was locked and his brain couldn't get over the fact that _he might lose JohnhemightloseJohn-_

"P...pressure," John gritted out through the pain. Sherlock deduced instantly what he meant and ripped part of his jumper off, then pressed it against the wound.

"M-more," John said, then gave a short, pained laugh. "The first...thing you rip...is my jumper?"

Sherlock gave a small smile as he leaned harder on the wound. "Of course the first thing I rip is your jumper. You know I hate these things," he said, laughing through the pain and the fact that _hemightloseJohnnotJohnnonono-_

John's breathing got shallower and Sherlock panicked.

"Call…" John didn't finish his sentence as his back arched and another wave of pain flooded through him. Sherlock's mind finally got to him; he was still panicking as a few tears ran down his face and he picked up the phone, dialing 999.

"And… and keep… keep me… awake…," John continued. Sherlock nodded, giving him a light swat on the cheek every time he started to close his eyes.

After he called 999, he stayed like that for a few minutes while he kept John awake. He set his mouth in a firm line and forced his mind to stay focused on the task, stop panicking, keep John alive. It worked; he felt more determined now. John would not die, John would not die, _John would not die…_

"You're not leaving me," Sherlock said. His mind started deducing. "The approximate time for 999 to arrive here is in ten minutes… You can stay alive until then. Blood loss from a gunshot wound like this-"

John's eyes started closing. Sherlock swatted him on the cheek. "Stay awake, John."

He didn't stay awake. His eyes started closing again. Sherlock swatted him. And again. Sherlock shook John's head from side to side.

His eyes closed and stayed there. John's breathing got a bit deeper, but it was still shallow and rapid.

It took a moment for Sherlock to realize it. He ignored the lights in the distance _they'll take too long, far too long to save him _and the blood still flowing from the wound _it's not stopping-_

He gasped as if something had stabbed through his heart-and it had. John was unconscious. Unconscious. _Unconsciousunconsciousunconscious-_

Then he gave a long, shuddering breath, tears starting to run down his face.

_Nonononothiscouldn'tbehappeningnotJohnnonono-_

Sherlock wondered when he'd begun to care for John so much. When he'd acquired a heart. When he'd begun to depend on the presence of John Watson, ex-army doctor and the person he-

_No._

His mind had gotten away from him. He couldn't let himself believe that. He couldn't love John, because John didn't love him, and there was nothing worse than seeing the man you loved ignore you day by day.

And he would know-he had felt it. Was still feeling it.

After that, the medic who stood watching Sherlock as his team took care of John would never forget how the famous detective broke right then and there. He'd never forget the silent tears, the curling up into a ball. He'd never forget how he walked up to him and put his hand on his shoulder, and how Sherlock looked up at him, eyes red and face streaked with tears, and demanded drugs, cigarettes, anything.

He'd never forget the call he got a day later. A tall man in a long, black, well-worn coat, with brown curly hair. The famous detective Sherlock Holmes, found in a drug den and close to death. Who fought the medics, protesting all the while.

He'd never forget what Sherlock was protesting, the broken, defeated voice he used.

"I want to join him," he said. "Let me join him, let me join John in death."

"Don't keep me here, don't force me to stay."


End file.
